by Geri Schear
I followed the footprints to the wall and found the gap behind the pale pink climbing roses through which the servants creep out. Beyond the wall was the public path and there were no usable prints. It did not matter. I had confirmed my supposition: the victim had come this way on the night she was murdered. There were no other footprints. The killer had not followed her here.
The clay beneath the roses was undisturbed in every direction. I traced Derby’s steps from the gap in the wall back to the crazy paving. Here, the stone was uneven and did not hold a print. Did the killer confront her here?
No, I am missing something.
I searched back through the garden, combing through the roses looking for a man’s footprints, but I did not see any. Am I wrong? Perhaps the killer kept the gloves on to avoid detection after all? No, his footprint was damp.
Heavy clouds obscured the light and it began to rain. In seconds the ground and all the traces were obliterated. I returned to the house in none too pleasant a mood.
I need to give this matter further contemplation.
This is a woeful house for contemplation.
9
Sept 20th, 1897 - Bitterne
Well, well, yesterday transpired to become a study in contrasts: the utterly brutish on one hand, and the sublimely beautiful on the other. As to the case, I find myself with a surfeit of suspects. Indeed, I have only been able to eliminate two from my suspicions. No doubt Watson would remonstrate that women are unlikely stranglers but I have known a number of murderous females and will not eliminate anyone based on gender alone.
I have discounted Miss Simms because she suffers from a severe arthritic condition in her fingers. Even in the unlikely event that she found the strength to squeeze the life from the dead woman’s throat, the bruises on the corpse would have reflected the malformation of her joints. There were no such signs, ergo, Miss Simms is not our killer.
Lady Summerville, too, I have removed from my list of suspects. She is overweight, soft in all her aspects, and I have no doubt the murdered woman would be well able to defend herself against so ineffective an opponent. Besides, given the huffing and panting I have seen her exhibit at even the gentlest of activity, I doubt she could manage the climb up the stairs to the servant’s quarters.
Mrs Beecham might do the job credibly enough. Though slight of build her hands are strong. She lacks, however, the killer instinct... well, without suitable provocation. I believe she could be quite savage in defence of her loved ones. I keep her on the list with a question mark.
The others in the house I believe are all equally capable of committing cold blooded murder. I eliminate no one. True, the footman Stevens and Lady Beatrice have impressed me with their intelligence and seeming honesty, but as someone once said, it is possible to smile and smile and prove a villain. I will not eliminate them just yet.
Then there is the matter of the footprints on the floor of the murdered woman’s room. They reveal a shoe that is small in size, a man’s size seven or a woman’s size eight. The killer, then, was roughly five foot seven. Lady Beatrice is exactly so tall, but Mrs Beecham, Mr Villiers, Reynolds and young Stevens are of a similar stature. Sir Christopher, though he is some three inches taller, wears a surprisingly small shoe and cannot be eliminated.
I added another suspect to my list this afternoon. The frightful Wallace Summerville arrived on the four o’clock train. It was remarkable to see the atmosphere in the house congeal most unpleasantly upon his appearance.
He is a much smaller man than his brother. Where Sir Christopher gives the impression of being taller than his actual height and possesses an imposing mien, the brother is short, slight and bears an unhappy resemblance to a rodent. His hair is red and course and his moustache sits over his mouth like a dead mouse.
For all his lack of attractive physical features, they are nothing to his behaviour. He is course, abusive and savage, behaviours that are exacerbated by his intemperance. He had not been in the house five minutes before I heard him screaming at the unfortunate housekeeper.
“What do you mean, you have put me on the west of the building, Simms? As a member of the family I deserve better! I always occupy the eastern room.”
The poor woman tried to explain that the other guests, myself included, had taken all the rooms on the eastern side of the house. I could not imagine that there was a significant difference between the wings, but Stevens tells me that Summerville’s usual chamber, the one I am using, is immediately beside Lady Beatrice’s. I conclude, therefore, it is more his being thwarted in his plans to spy on that young woman than the inconvenience of being in the other side of the building that so vexed him.
Miss Simms made every effort to avoid saying she was acting under orders of Lady Summerville; she knew the consequence of such an admission for her mistress. I intruded upon the conversation and introduced myself.
“Ah, Mr Sherlock Holmes,” the new arrival said with a sneer. “My brother told me you had arrived to pry into all our doings.”
“Do you have ‘doings’ worthy of my efforts, Mr Summerville?” I asked, genially. “I assure you, I am already well acquainted with your reputation.”
“Here,” he cried. “Who has been speaking about me? If any of these young pups...”
“I believe your name arose in a conversation I had with Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard,” I said. “Like me, he has been interested in you for some time.”
He fumbled for a reply, then a savage smile twisted his features as he said, “Well, now, Mr Holmes, you can’t pin this woman’s death on me. I wasn’t even here yesterday. Anyone will tell you that.”
“And where were you?”
“If you will excuse me, gentlemen,” Miss Simms said, seizing her chance to escape. “I must see to Mr Summerville’s room.”
“You do that, you trollop!” he cried as she scurried away. Then his malign gaze was back upon me. “I was in London, if you must know. I have any number of people who can vouch for me, if I need.”
I let the matter drop. Summerville has slithered away from justice at least twice before. If he is Liz Derby’s killer, better to take my time and build an inescapable trap for him.
About half an hour later a telephone call came from Watson. He kept his conversation brief.
“Just to let you know I shall be staying in the city overnight, Holmes,” he said, his voice crackling on the line. “I have learned a great deal that will interest you. Poor Mrs Hudson was under the weather when I arrived, but she seems to be improving...”
Though I had not expected him to complete so many interviews in one day, I confess I find myself disappointed at the delay in his return. I miss his company. As I have often noted, his presence and his knack for asking exactly the right questions often helps me to clarify my own thinking. Still, I needs must do without him for the evening at least.
The rain continues to pour down and it lashed the windows as we gathered in the dining room for supper. Though it is unseasonably cold, Lady Summerville had to plead with her husband for a fire to be lit. We therefore all kept our hands on the plates for warmth. Villiers, I noticed, was shivering uncontrollably.
“I really feel the cold most acutely,” he said quietly, in obvious fear of offending our host. “I wish I’d brought a warmer jacket. My hands are quite blue.”
They were indeed. The poor men seemed wretchedly uncomfortable, but so did we all. I think the Summerville’s fortunes must be in a pitiful state indeed if he begrudges a few fists of coal to ensure his guests’ comfort.
Wallace Summerville sat beside Lady Beatrice and made countless unproductive attempts to engage her in conversation. She remained silent and would not even meet his eye. He consoled himself with an astonishing amount of red wine.
Of one thing I am certain: the Lady fears him. And she does not strike me as the sort of woman to fear man
y people.
“How do you get on with your case, Mr Holmes?” Lady Summerville asked over the roast beef. “Have you - what’s the phrase - eliminated us as suspects yet?”
“Some of you, yes indeed, Lady Summerville,” I replied. “It is a process, of course, and a significant part of that is knowing as much as possible about the victim.”
“So... you have nothing to report?” Sir Christopher said. He might have been accusing me of poisoning his prize stallion, so withering was his tone.
“On the contrary,” I replied. “I think I get along very well.”
“You do?” said Alice Beecham, breathlessly. “Oh, can you tell us?”
“It would be a mistake to say too much at this critical juncture,” I replied. “But suffice it to say the killer left traces... they always do, you know. Even the cleverest.”
“What sort of traces?” Villiers asked as breathlessly as any of the women.
“Oh, any number of things. The type of weapon is often revealing. In the housemaid’s case the weapon was the killer’s own hands.”
“Which tells you what?” asked Wallace Summerville asked. He made no attempt to disguise his sneer.
“That the murder was a crime passional, a crime of passion, not premeditated.” I paused, cut a piece of carrot and ate it before adding, “Of course there are other traces, too. Fingerprints, for instance.”
They were all silent, spellbound, even Sir Christopher. He said, “Now, I’ve heard that. I remember reading somewhere that no two people have the same fingerprints.”
“That is quite true. Thanks to the work of Sir Francis Galton we have learned a great deal about the usefulness of fingerprinting in revealing a suspect. A number of police bureaus around the world have started to catalogue and use them.”
“Yes,” Perrot said, slicing his venison with great precision. “They’ve begun to use them in Argentina.” For the moment he seemed to have forgotten that his English was supposed to be poor. “I’m not sure with what success.”
“The police in Buenos Aires have had a special fingerprinting bureau in place for some years now,” I replied. “I believe they have found it quite successful. Do you know Argentina, M. Perrot? It is a place I have always wanted to visit.”
“I have an interest in horses,” the phony Frenchman said. “I spent a few weeks in Buenos Aires selecting some animals for my ranch a year or two ago. A fascinating place, not at all like Europe. I think you would enjoy it.”
“I have no doubt,” I replied.
“And this villain,” Wallace Summerville asked, his voice already slurred. “Did he leave fingerprints?”
“Sadly no. He seems to have worn gloves.”
“Then how do you proceed, Mr Holmes?” Villiers asked. “What is your next step?”
Again I took a moment to study their faces before replying. The Summerville men looked contemptuous; Lady Summerville titillated; Villiers, Perrot and the Beechams were curious. As before, Lady Beatrice seemed indifferent to the entire proceedings.
“As I said this morning, I think learning something of Derby’s background may help.”
“Ah, and that is why you sent Dr Watson to London,” Beecham said. “He seems a very reliable chap, but I wonder you did not go yourself, Mr Holmes.”
“I have every confidence in the good doctor,” I replied. “And there is yet more for me to do here.”
“Well, I hope it shan’t take long,” Sir Christopher said. “This isn’t a guest house you know.”
At that, Lady Beatrice raised her eyes from her plate and stared icily at our host. “I am sure, sir,” she said. “You did not mean that to sound as ungracious as it did. I believe you owe Mr Holmes an apology.”
There was a long pause and the gentleman’s face grew progressively redder, more with choler than with embarrassment. His brother glared at the Lady but before he could say anything Sir Christopher said tightly, “No, of course I meant no offense, Mr Holmes.”
“Here,” his brother slurred, putting his hand on Lady Beatrice’s arm. “You’ve no call to speak to my brother that way.”
“I will address any member of my family any way I choose,” she replied. “Now you will take your hand from my arm, sir, or I will most assuredly break your fingers.” She picked up her fork and poised it over the lout’s hand. He released his grasp at once.
“Please,” Lady Summerville whimpered. “Please let us be calm. Please.”
Lady Beatrice set down the fork and said, “I apologise, ma’am.” Then, as if there had been no interruption, she calmly resumed her meal.
A silence then settled upon the company and I believe we were all relieved when we adjourned to the music room.
It would have been customary, of course, for the host to offer a cigarette and a cognac to the gentlemen after the meal but Sir Christopher did no such thing. In hindsight, I wonder if he was trying to limit his brother’s drinking. He was much too late if that were the case; the lout was already well inebriated with the wine. At any rate, we were led into the music room and his wife begged Lady Beatrice to play the piano. There was a hushed exchange between the two women which ended with the younger sitting unhappily at the instrument.
My experience of ‘talented’ young women demonstrating their musical skills has seldom been pleasant. At best, they are dull. Frequently they are excruciating.
Lady Beatrice was extraordinary. She played Beethoven’s piano sonata No. 14 with feeling and skill that I have seldom hear equalled even in the finest concert halls of the world. Certainly, her playing has never been surpassed. I listened in a state I can only describe as rapture.
She played without sheet music and yet she was note-perfect. I could see that she was quite transported to another realm, as all true artists are. As a violinist I can say with deep sadness it is a state I myself have never achieved.
I cannot say how the other guests responded to her playing; I was utterly transfixed and, I confess, in my rapture I forgot anyone else was present. The perfect beauty of the melody and the depth of feeling with which it was conveyed moved me as little else has ever done.
The last notes finally faded and the illusion of a world of civility and perfection shattered as Wallace Summerville shouted, “That’s enough of the funeral rubbish. Play something lively.”
Lady Beatrice said, “I must remind you, sir, there was a death in this house but yesterday. Lively tunes would not be appropriate. Indeed, I would not have even played the sonata save my aunt was so anxious to hear it.”
“A servant,” our host sneered. “What is that to us? Come on, you baggage, play something we can sing along to.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything that would suit,” she replied, and rose from her seat. She went and stood by the window staring out into the darkness.
Villiers rose to his full five foot seven and said, “I know a few jolly tunes from the theatre. May I?” He sat and treated the company to a selection from Misters Gilbert and Sullivan. He played better than he sang, though he did well enough. Under other circumstances I might have enjoyed his performance. However, his forced jollity felt flat. After he finished his first song Lady Beatrice said, “Will you excuse me? I have a headache.”
“Allow me to escort you to your room, Lady Beatrice,” Wallace Summerville said rising unsteadily to his feet.
“That will not be necessary,” she said. She left the room but he, undeterred, stumbled after her.
The party paid no heed but I observed Stevens silently slip out of the room. I admit I felt some relief in knowing Lady Beatrice had someone to protect her from whatever villainy Summerville had in mind.
“If you will excuse me,” I said before Villiers could resume playing. “But I shall retire also. May I wish you all a pleasant evening?”
“Ah of course, of course!” my
host said, clearly delighted to be rid of me. Frankly, I was equally pleased to rid of him too.
I left the room and ran silently up the staircase. A sound of a disturbance reached me from above. In a few seconds I achieved the landing and found Lady Beatrice struggling against the embrace of Wallace Summerville. Stevens lay upon the floor with blood trickling from a cut forehead.
I grabbed Summerville and struck him across the chin. He crumpled like a discarded marionette.
“Blackguard!” I cried. “No one but a knave would behave so shamefully.”
“You mind your own business, you Scotland Yard buffoon,” he said, or tried to. His speech was rendered almost incoherent by rage and alcohol. He tried to get to his feet, but it took him several tries before he succeeded.
“Lady Beatrice,” I said. “Are you all right? Come, that is a nasty bruise, we must see to it at once.”
“There’s ointment and such downstairs, sir,” Stevens said climbing unsteadily to his feet. “I’ll fetch it.”
“Do,” I replied. “Good lad. And have someone dress your own wound too.” As the boy hurried away I gave Lady Beatrice my arm and assisted her to her room.
“You watch yourself, miss,” Summerville cried. “I’ll teach you to behave when you’re my wife.”
She made no reply but I felt her shudder convulsively against me as I led her into her chamber.
I poured her a glass of water and she took it from me with trembling hands.
“I wish Watson was here,” I said. “He’s far better than I at lending comfort to young ladies in distress.”
She gave me a crooked smile and then winced. A deep bruise was forming around her right wrist. “You underestimate yourself, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I am greatly in your debt.”
“I sincerely hope, Lady Beatrice, Mr Summerville is not truthful when he says you and he are to be married.”
